There's something about the idea of the cowboy that persists in the imagination of humanity. It's a romantic notion nurtured not only in the fertile imagination but in the heart. I've often said that the western is a uniquely American genre set on the vast canvas of the the plains, prairies, deserts, canyons, and mountains of America. However, the vision of the cowhand, sheriff, drifter, and outlaw transcends the geography and lifestyle that birthed it. The dream can't be restrained and has taken to the stars. Climb aboard and touch your spurs to ride that lofty ambition. Sic itur ad astra.
Space Cowboys 6: Fission Chips is out and topping the list in new sci-fi anthologies.
______________I went on a quest this week. I didn't expect to go on a quest. I expected to make a quick trip to a gas station so that I could fill the low tire on the rattlin' battle wagon. The brand new station with its fancy-shmancy air station held out the promise of pressure, but that particular position on the premises remained positively passive. In fact, it had not been activated at all. I had to mess with it for a few minutes to verify that it suffered from a lack of power and that it wasn't merely operator error to blame. Fortunately, it only took credit cards, preventing the prodigal squandering of coins in a vain attempt to prime it to life.
There were legends that lived on from the Chippewa on down of another air station at the older sister station to this one. I consulted the ancient charts in the form of my recollection of having driven by the older place on numerous occasions. After placing the location in my mind, I set the sails and got underway, arriving only minutes later. Before me stood a seasoned air station bearing the scrapes and scratches of many encounters with desperate travelers. I gave it a brief examination and loaded it up with coins.
Nothing happened.
I couldn't hear any compressor kicking on, nor did any pressure come from the hose. No matter how many buttons I pushed or how I adjusted the mechanism, it refused to perform the service for which I had paid. It ate about two bucks without providing satisfaction.
I had heard of another place whose name was spoken in hushed tones. Those hushed tones had come from the guy who had told me about places that might have air stations. He had mentioned a third place, almost as an afterthought. Having been certain that one of the first two possibilities would answer my dilemma, I hadn't paid much attention to the third. I racked my brain and shot the cue ball into the mass, scattering thoughts in all directions. One found the pocket. I knew the place, even though I had not noticed the air station.
A reading on the sextant of memory let me adjust my course for the new destination. A slick maneuver and a shortcut brought me precisely to where I would've been had I taken a less imaginative route. I got into traffic, got through the light, turned, and turned again to find the air oasis. My keen eye found it hidden next to a shrubbery and completely devoid of knights with a favorite word. Although it took coins, I didn't have enough left to meet the minimum requirement to make the machine dance. However, being the resourceful type, I persuaded the apparatus to perform with a perfunctory perusal of my payment plastic.
Thus did I complete the quest for air and did slay the dragon of diminished pressure in my pneu -- or at least forced it to retreat before superior firepower so that it could creep slowly back to clash again another day.